


Shattered

by CiCi_Celestial



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Blood and Gore, Character Death, Fire, M/M, War, cross faction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-15 18:08:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13618824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CiCi_Celestial/pseuds/CiCi_Celestial
Summary: They both knew this was going to happen eventually. Neither of them could have known how, neither of them could have known when. They only knew it was going to happen. After all, it caught up with everyone. No one could escape the cruel, cold clutches of Death.This. This wasn't the way it should have happened.





	Shattered

**Author's Note:**

> There's quite a lot of blood and mentions of death in this! If you're triggered easily, you may not want to read this.

 

They both knew this was going to happen eventually. Neither of them could have known how, neither of them could have known when. They only knew it was going to happen. After all, it caught up with everyone. No one could escape the cruel, cold clutches of death.

 

This. This wasn't the way it should have happened. They'd imagined various scenarios, various different storybook worthy endings to their tales. Yet this was too much, some man in the sky getting a good laugh watching these two men suffer from demons who grinned in their glee at watching them suffer. Instead of peace, instead of heroic actions, the two would die in their own personal hell.

 

Heat licked at each man's shadow hungrily, flames tasting the ground with a ferocity similar to a starving tiger. Smoke billowed into the sky, tainting the night, blotting out the stars and moon with wisps of gray paint. The overwhelming smell of wood and flesh burning to a crisp hung heavy in the air, a disgusting taste that made every man's eyes burn and sting. The flames lit up the area, shadows falling heavily on each man's silhouette, allowing their eyes to burn with passion and excitement. The BLUs had managed to corner the RED Sniper, the man who ruthlessly popped their heads with a grin on his face and a cigarette between his teeth. Now, this man was at the mercy of a group of BLUs, back against a bloody concrete wall while his previous nest burnt to the ground nearby. His Sniper Rifle lay in a pile of cinders and ash, melted to the point beyond repair. His SMG was kicked away from him, painted red with his own blood, useless under the boot of a Soldier. The only thing he had left was his knife, his trusted kukri in his hand that shook covered in crimson. The knife shook in his grip, unsure, wavering slightly due to a nasty gunshot wound to the shoulder. His grip was solid, if not a little shaky, as he brandished the knife towards the BLU Scout, who had his own pistol lined up between his eyes.

 

Scout stared deep into the murky brown eyes of the Sniper, wide and filled with a horror so deep it caused Scout's blood to freeze. Yet the horror was not for himself, not for his own life which was being placed on the line, not for the pistol being pointed at his head. Rather, he was terrified of the men behind, the nameless and faceless people who were watching Scout with such intensity it sent shivers down his spine. They knew something was amiss, they knew he didn't hesitate to kill, especially enemies who were downed or injured. Scout felt their fiery gazes more than he felt the heat of the flame steadily crackling and burning into the night. He could only swallow a shallow gulp of heated air, the two hands gripping his pistol trembling.

 

Sniper greedily sucked air through his mouth, huffing in an attempt to keep himself alive and breathing, even the smoke blazed through his lungs an throat. The pain in his arm flared, before he gripped it tighter with his free hand. Blood eagerly rushed through the cracks in between his fingers, as if fate itself willed for him to die quicker. Sniper almost wished he would, staring into the distressed blue eyes of the Scout he'd come to know so very well. He wished this wasn't how things would be, but there were too many of the BLUs surrounding him. He couldn't fight them all with his kukri. He'd be dead before he even got to one of them. He felt himself stare at the Scout, taking in every detail of the face he'd come to love, drinking in the image of the man's bloody face, slightly bruised cheek, light colored hair matted with sweat and blood, hat knocked slightly askew, buck teeth glimmering in the light of the flame. Despair overwhelmed his senses, alongside a fearlessness and acceptance he never knew existed. Sniper felt his brows furrow, felt his hand steady, felt everything click into place. Maybe this was how it was meant to be. Some crazed man up in the skies, some sick-minded poet, all scripting his demise. Sniper gave a resolute gaze to Scout, trying to muster up a small, hidden smile, trying to tell the Scout it was OK. Fate dealt them a shitty hand, but at least one of them could walk away alive.

 

Scout watched as the Sniper stared into his own eyes, muddy brown glowing gold in the light of the fire. The man smiled, peace and acceptance flooding his features. It was brilliant, the bright yellows and oranges shadowing the man's face in a way not even the sun could dream of doing. Sniper looked like a painting, of peace and serenity, of a war-torn man who accepted his own doom at the hands of his lover. He wanted to drop his gun, to help the man stand, to call for a medic, to do _anything_. Yet, all he could do was keep the barrel of his pistol trained between the eyes of the man he'd loved more than anything else. He wanted to deny it, to pretend as if the demons standing behind him were absent, as if the crimson injury on the man's RED shirt wasn't there, as if everything was fine and dandy and perfect although the world was crashing down around them. He couldn't pull the trigger, he just couldn't. Scout felt his foot stumble backwards, gasping in a rough breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. He heard one of his teammates, a BLU Pyro, mumble something, voice drowned out by his mask. He was taking too long. But fuck, he couldn't do this. He couldn't kill the only thing that had made his life worth living. He felt his foot stumble backward, felt his head shake slightly. He couldn't do this. Water welled in his eyes, hot from the heat. He couldn't do this.

 

But he had to. Otherwise, they'd both die.

 

His finger curled around the trigger, ready to squeeze at a moment's notice. His heart ached, every fiber of his being screeching at him to not do it, to ignore the other men behind him, to run to Sniper and collapse into his warm arms and cry his anguish as the man rubbed slow circles into his back.

 

Sniper smiled again at Scout, faint but still there. A smile that said a thousand things all at once, without a single syllable needing to be uttered. The weight of the words hung heavier in the air than the smoke rising carelessly into the night.

 

_It'll be okay. I'm sorry you have to do this. I love you. Goodbye._

 

“I can't,” Scout's finger slipped off the trigger.

 

Sniper felt his eyes widen. The kid was crying, whispering to the air painfully, a tear gathering in his baby blue eye, being brightened and highlighted by the warm flames and the stars twinkling above them as if hell itself wasn't opening up on earth. The sheer amount of turmoil written on the lines of this kid's face hurt Sniper to look at. Those lines didn't belong on the confident, loudmouthed Scout. He nearly dropped his kukri, white-knuckled grip faltering. The kid never cried, never backed down. Now more than ever, Sniper saw the figures of the other BLUs, covered from head to toe in injuries and blood, looking down at him and Scout. He felt their passionate, burning gazes switch from him to Scout, who's strong legs were shaking and stepping backwards slowly, pistol dropping slowly to the ground's surface, harmless in the Scout's limp hands.

 

“I can't,” Scout backpedaled further, shaking his head desperately, never breaking eye contact with the Sniper on the ground. Somehow, his faint words were heard by everyone, even over the dimming crackles of the fire. “I can't.”

 

Time stopped.

 

“What do you mean 'You can't'?” A BLU Soldier yelled, voice demanding, commanding, horrifying, strong, angry. Scout turned toward the man, leaving his back to the downed Sniper. He still held his pistol, arms now steady and resolute. The man stood tall over Scout as various other BLUs surrounded the teary Scout. The Soldier marched closer to the Scout, eyes murderous and gray. Sniper dropped his kukri, grasping instead at the bullet lodged in his shoulder. Not once did his gaze leave the Scout. He wanted to speak, but it took everything he had to just keep breathing, even if the air was heavy with ash.

 

“I-” Scout squeaked. “I can't.” Now, with more strength. “I won't.”

 

“And what the hell do you mean by that, Private?!” The man continued to yell, while various other BLUs stalked closer and closer to the Scout, who gripped his pistol tighter. He felt a rage deep within his chest, a rage he'd only experienced once when his mother was in danger. An urge bubbled in his chest to protect the downed man, the man who'd offered him companionship and love. He wouldn't kill him. Scout would rather die than put his gun between the Sniper's eyes, would rather burn in hell than see such pain and despair etched onto his face again.

 

His hand raised up, clutching his pistol tightly, finger poised to fire. He aimed directly at the Soldier's head, in between his dark eyes. No fear flooded his system, no regret. Just a surge of protectiveness and love and hope and courage. Foolish, foolish courage, but courage nonetheless.

 

“I ain't killing my friend.”

 

The Soldier's mouth gaped open and he heard a collective step taken by the other BLUs, ready to defend the Soldier even against their own teammate. One of the Spies tsked, unfolding his butterfly knife with ease. Scout didn't waver, feet planted firmly on the ground, gaze trained on the Soldier. His stance was sure, unwavering, strong. So unbefitting of a scout, of a man who would buzz around the battlefield like a hornet, bashing people's skulls in before flying away, flying away to sting another unfortunate RED. He was picturesque, figure matching that of a statue dedicated to those heroes of war. Yet this man was no hero, he was no war-torn soldier. He was a mercenary, choosing of his own free will to act as a hero to the fallen enemy. All the Scout could feel was the overwhelming sense of bravery and belief rushing through his veins, giving him a high he'd never experienced.

 

Then, the Soldier raised up his shotgun, aiming directly for the Scout's head. Time slowed, everything happening in slow motion, as if to torture the two men who knew exactly what would happen. The flash of the gun's barrel was brighter than the fire, brighter than the stars and moon, brighter than the sun itself. The sound was earth-shattering, loud and finite, a sound indicating near-certain death to any normal man. Sniper felt his heart leap into his throat, felt it stop beating entirely, felt his eyes widen. This couldn't happen, the Scout couldn't die. The Scout couldn't die saving him. He just couldn't. The Scout could have lived on, could have escaped this special hell and found someone else, found someone better than the Sniper to spend the rest of his life with. He could move on once the Sniper passed. Sniper couldn't. Sniper was alone, a man who enjoyed his solitude until it nearly killed him. Sniper couldn't handle having Scout forcibly ripped away from him, his soul wouldn't be able to handle it. Watching Scout die would kill Sniper as well.

 

The next thing Sniper heard was the even louder sound of a body, a light, lengthy body falling on top of him. He felt warm, warm sticky crimson melt into his clothing, into his skin. He could feel his chest being torn to shreds as the Scout's head, still covered in soft, albiet bloody, brown hair, fell onto his chest, too heavy and too hot and too sticky and too wrong. He could feel the warmth leave Scout's body, battered and broken from the after-affects of war. This one second lasted an eternity, never ending as Sniper felt unimaginable pain shatter everything, shatter his mind, his heart, his whole being. The Scout was dying, dying on his chest as Sniper was helpless to do anything but watch, watch as the light left Scout's eyes and his life oozed out of him in quick, rapid pulses.

 

Sniper felt a scream rip itself out of his throat, full of utter anguish. Never had the Sniper known such pain, not when he lost his parents nor when he was shot in the shoulder by the enemy Sniper. He clambered to hold the boy, to wrap his hands around his face, his shoulders, his hips, anything as long as he could grab him and hold him, feel his warmth that was leaving him so fast, so bloody fast. He filled his arms with the Scout's body, hands on his shoulders as his legs slumped over Sniper's own bent knee. Sniper clutched him as close as he could, crushing the Scout against his chest. Blood was oozing out of a numerous bullet holes in the Scout's head, Sniper couldn't see any light in those baby blue eyes he'd grown to love so goddamn much, couldn't see any life in those bright irises that seemed so dull as they stared into the night sky, highlighted by the bright orange and yellow of the fire.

 

Sniper couldn't have heard the finite, distinctive sound of a gun being reloaded. He couldn't have heard the Pyro mumble incoherently through his mask nor could he have heard the disapproving, disgusted grunt of the Soldier. All he could feel was the warmth, the sticky warmth dripping onto his body, the pain rending his very being in two. He could feel the fire beside him grow larger, begin to await it's next meal with ample patience.

 

Sniper felt pain.

 

Then, after one sliver of a second, he didn't.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. :3


End file.
